


Listen to the Wind

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hobbits Have Gifts, Angst, Eventual Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Isolation, M/M, Warnings in Chapter Summaries After Chapter One
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:26:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo is alone and will always be alone, because his Gift is a Curse.  He's happy (miserable) in Bag-End, surrounded by memories of a better (but not by much) time and clinging to the (useless, pointless) things within (because they are all he'll ever have).</p><p>And then 13 Dwarves and 1 Wizard show up on his doorstep, reminding him, quite painfully, why he prefers to be alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IronPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronPanda/gifts).



> **Prompt:** Hobbits are given one power at birth. Big or small (Ranging from talking to animals to making little sparks of fire, in variety) it is their talent, their secret, and it is a hobbit’s gift and they do not give it freely to outsiders. Well, most don’t.
> 
> Can be Modern AU or set in Canon Verse.

Every Hobbit has a Gift.

It is something special, something they are born with, though it does not necessarily mean that they are good at it. Most have some sense of how to keep it under control and, those who don't, often have a teacher.

Most have a useful gift, such as the ability to send ‘sparks’ off from their fingers (and, subsequently, are unaffected by the heat and flames), or the ability to encourage plants to grow healthier. Some could even call breezes to run through the Shire on a hot day or talk to animals (though that often had the side-effect of them having to live far away from the farmers and butchers, along with forgoing all, or most, meat). Others have 'silly' gifts, such as the ability to make smoke change colors.

All are perfectly acceptable things, even the odd ones (such as the one Hobbit who had the Gift of Flight, which was pretty useless as all Hobbits naturally have a fear of heights, and one had the Gift of Breathing Underwater, which was quite useful as Hobbits had a very high rate of drowning), for they did not invade privacy.

Despite being terrible gossips, none had any ability that could see under the façades they presented to the world, and it was considered quite rude and unrespectable to try and see beyond what was given.

Gossip was the exception.

But being unGifted was unheard of, because _every_ Hobbit had a Gift.

So when Bilbo turned five, the age all faunts came into their Gift, with Bilbo Baggins not showing an inclination of a Gift, the gossip began to start up about this being the reason no Baggins or Took should ever mix, for it would result in an unGifted faunt.

They had no idea how wrong they were.

* * *

Bilbo’s sixth birthday party started off without a hitch.

Bilbo seemed to be having a building headache, but Belladonna was sure it would clear up on its own, maybe if he drank some more water. He sometimes shook his head or winced, as if something was bothering him, and, more often than usual at the very least, was turning into her comforting embrace. As the party continued, Bilbo only seemed to be getting worse, jumping and barely remembering to hand out his gifts to his guests with the proper, “Thank you for attending my party.”

And one time he handed the present, and said his thanks, before the other boy could accept it with a simple, “Thank you for inviting me,” Bilbo dropped it with a whimper.

And then everything exploded.

Bilbo began to scream and claw at his head, shaking all over as he began to let out choked words that made no sense. Bungo was there in a second, trying to get Bilbo to stop clawing his head, and then one sentence cut through the air, high and raw and pained, “Make the voices go away!”

Bungo stilled, but then Bilbo was in his arms and he was running up to Bag-End.

And Belladonna was left with the still silence of what had once been a bright party in the afternoon.

* * *

Everything changed after that day.

Friends that Bilbo once had in abundance disappeared overnight, invitations to birthday parties faded away like fog in the sun, and family was suddenly too busy to visit.

At first, Bilbo had felt too battered and tired and hurt to care.

But eventually he was able to pull himself up above his, frighteningly large, range of reception and could focus.

And he got lonely.

At first, he had cried, trying to find comfort with his parents. But as time passed and he managed to haul himself above the water of their thoughts and emotions. Above the pain and agony that raced through his brain and made him shiver and sob, he could make out one sentence shared between his parents.

_Why couldn’t he have a normal Gift?_

And so Bilbo shut away his pain and struggled to make sense of his Gift (his Curse), and tried to stand on his own, even as he was assaulted by others' thoughts, and emotions, and, later (much, much later, after the cold and fear and death), images tinged with emotion.

(Bilbo, internally, blamed the Fell Winter for that last ability, for all the Hobbits who lived through it had their Gifts grow in strength.)

And through the years, through the Fell Winter, and his father’s death and his mother’s soon behind, Bilbo learned to live with his loneliness.

But no matter how isolated he was, buzzing voices (too many, too much, too… _everything_ ) raced along his mind, and emotions crashed over his, drowning his own emotions in theirs.

And sometimes he would get a double vision of snow and ice and _fear_ would fill him as White Wolf prowled closer or an Orc began to march forward.

He learned to live with his loneliness and isolation.

But he couldn’t learn to live with the agony that filled his every breathing moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time (July 10th/11th, 2013) I had a giveaway on Tumblr. It was random. In it, I said I would have the winner up in the week after the giveaway closed (August 1st, 2013).
> 
> Well, the winner was posted late and this is late.
> 
> I am sorry.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the angst and agony that is this chapter.
> 
> And this whole thing.
> 
> (Eventually there is comfort, I swear it is just...a long, _long_ , **_long_** way off.)


	2. It Could be Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mention of Self-Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will post this on my Tumblr tomorrow, or later, or whatever this is.

Bilbo breathed deeply through his nose as he struggled to find his own thoughts amongst those of his closest neighbors.

His Gift had grown stronger as the years passed, often leaving him struggling to find who he was under all the other voices until he was able to force his own thoughts to the top of the pile. He took a couple more deep breaths and then focused on his own emotions, which were much easier to pluck from the others' emotions, mostly because he was the only one with that thread of  _agony_ running through them.

Once reassured who he was, but trembling with a fine sheen of sweat now covering him, he began his day, first with a bath. By the time he was finished with getting ready, and having to fight off the lingering idle thoughts that drifted across his mind, it was halfway through Breakfast. Soon, he could go outside, and he was careful to wear every proper piece of clothing, debating about going to the market before deciding he didn’t want to wear his coat that marked him as someone to avoid.

After some time, he settled on smoking his pipe, as the taste of Old Toby soothed nerves that were constantly under strain.

He puffed gently, shivering a little as he felt the sharp bite of some of the nastier thoughts. “ _He should be locked up,”_ is the prominent one that makes Bilbo wish to just hide away in his smial for the rest of his life, except…

He smiles and waves at the Hobbit matron walking with her group, watching as the group of five all run past.

Except this was the only time he got close to interacting with anyone.

Holman didn’t mind the fact that Bilbo got glimpses of his thoughts, but Hamfast, his heir-son and cousin did. Hamfast’s thoughts became particularly cutting whenever he spied Bilbo and…

He sighed softly as he felt the familiar lashings of Hamfast’s thoughts. “Morning Hamfast,” he greeted.

“Master Baggins,” Hamfast answered with the barest courtesy and he walked to the plants under the far windowsill.

Bilbo could, in fact, take care of the plants himself and, of his more prized flora, he did not let any touch. His natural talent with plants was only overshadowed by those with a Gift for them, such as Holman and Hamfast.

Nice, perfectly ordinary Gifts that any Hobbit would be happy to have.

That Bilbo wished desperately he had or was unGifted.

He would rather be that, in fact.

Gifts, especially any that were remotely like Bilbo’s (not that any Hobbit ever has, or ever will, have Gifts like Bilbo’s own) were a Curse.

And Bilbo wouldn’t wish them on his worst enemy.

* * *

The next morning started as any other morning, except this morning, he prepared himself to go to the market.

He tugged on the coat, blue with silver edging, that those with uncontrollable and dangerous Gifts wore until such time as their Gifts were under control. Taking a deep breath, he focused on preparing himself for the backlash of stepping outside his gate.

He clung to the basket and considered not going to market at all, before he shook himself slightly, though he didn’t bother to lie to himself about how he could take the thoughts.

“I’ll just pick up what’s needed and order the rest to be delivered later, that’s all. And you’re talking to yourself again Bilbo. Of course, anything’s better than the voices not your own, anything to ground yourself…and now I just sound crazy,” Bilbo muttered before he let out a long sigh and covered his face.

He was alone and he would always be alone, because who could ever want someone who could read their every hidden thought and emotion and see their darkest secrets?

“Just go out, get what’s needed, order the rest, and enjoy a nice pipe of Old Toby before locking yourself in your study,” he recited and resisted the urge to groan at the fact he was still talking to himself.

It wasn’t so bad when Ivy had been there.

Ivy, the mottled brown-black dog whose shoulder had reached Bilbo’s waist, had been named almost off-handedly by Bilbo when he found her, out of a desire to talk to someone with a name in his newly emptied smial after his mother’s death. He had found her, starving and snarling in the cold of a normal winter following the Fell Winter.

She had lived up to that name till the day she had left Bag-End and didn’t return.

Bilbo closed his eyes for a moment and let out a sigh, wincing at the thought of Ivy and how she was gone.

The only other living being aside from his parents who had loved him and, unlike his parents, had not judged him or wished that he was different, or that he was not who he was.

He shook his head slightly and opened his eyes to stare at his hands.

“Go to the market, barter for what you need, get overcharged, bring back what you can carry, and pay Holman extra to get the rest to fill up your pantries,” Bilbo recited and stood up.

He could do this.

With a deep breath, Bilbo steeled his spine and walked out his front door.

* * *

There had been worse trips to the market.

Bilbo would cling to that thought even as he trudged up Bagshot Row to his smial. It wasn’t as bad as right after the Fell Winter, when everyone’s thoughts were focused on ways to kill him.

How it could be blamed on the wolves, and back when Bilbo was still so sensitive and _raw_ , he couldn’t think of the fact they hadn’t meant it (though some had), and was so frightened.

It wasn’t like the worst of times, when Bilbo accidentally let slip something he shouldn’t know or defended someone truly hurt, when their hatred rolled under his skin like a disease that he felt he needed to cut out (and had the scars on his arms to prove when he had been pushed too far and actually thought cutting at his skin would remove the other Hobbits’ hatred from him).

It wasn’t as bad as all of that.

It could have been worse.

Bilbo repeated that mantra all the way to Bag-End and, when everything was put away, he curled over against the wall and gripped his head, and tried to claw his way free of thoughts and feelings not his own.

He was only moderately successful.

* * *

Bilbo sat out on his bench in front of the smial, near the road, and he settled in for a pipe of Old Toby. He trembled slightly as he light his pipe and took deep breaths through his nose before he fully focused on his pipe.

He took a few puffs and soon he relaxed on the bench, enjoying the outside and the sun, all wrapped up in a good pipe.

Others’ thoughts buzzed through his mind, trying to overwrite his own thoughts, but the fact Bilbo had found some peace kept the worst of them at bay, and their emotions were not nearly as overpowering, instead just lapping at his own like water against the shores of the lake.

His peace was shattered as he was suddenly assaulted by powerful, _burning_ , fire bright thoughts, chaotic and filled with _too much_. The emotions were a towering inferno that threatened to burn out Bilbo’s own emotions and Bilbo collapsed to the ground as he fought to find himself amongst the _otherness_ that were these new thoughts.

Bilbo gasped for air as he curled up on the ground and shuddered continuously before he managed to find himself.

Still shivering, Bilbo blinked at the ground before he remembered why he was on it in the first place. With slow deliberation, he gathered up his pipe, and pulled himself up onto the bench. He shook as he relight his pipe and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat away before he settled back and closed his eyes.

The towering flame and fire and…

It burned at his nerve endings and made him want to scream.

He just focused on his pipe and closed his eyes, forcing his body to relax even as, internally, he begged for the pain to go away. It didn’t help when the presence stood in front of him, an unmoving pillar of flame, and he blew out a smoke ring.

And then he got a face full of smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivy, in the Victorian language of the flowers, means fidelity.


	3. Intrusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A headache and Dwarves.
> 
> Or...a headache and, later, a bigger headache. And then an infuriating headache because some Wizard is behind this all, and most especially that first headache.
> 
> And the Dwarves.
> 
> He's definitely behind the Dwarves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably mention that Gandalf believes Bilbo is unGifted.
> 
> Also, everyone's seen the movie, so I just skipped the conversation between Gandalf and Bilbo, because it doesn't change, and...the rest spoils the chapter.

Bilbo trembled all over, reaching for his head with both hands, feeling as if his brain was burning, burning,  _burning_ right out of skull and he ran shaky fingers through his curly mop before he sunk to the ground, his legs like uncooked dough that would not, could not, support his weight anymore. Thoughts of adventures and running from the Shire and...adventures all racing through his mind from Gandalf’s words.

Oh, how Bilbo's heart longed to leave the Shire, to get away from the stares and whispers and being called names, either in their minds or with their throats and...

It was a foolish dream, wasn't it? He could barely keep his head above water, as it were, within the Shire. Out there?

Out there, he might as well just ask for his brain to leak out of his ears.

He smiled sadly at his hands and, slowly, forced himself to stand before he headed further into Bag-End. Stumbling along as he was, he didn’t hear the soft scratching at his door, heralding change in Bilbo Baggins’s world.

Instead, he fell into bed, thinking about how after an hour (or five) of sleep, he would be right as rain once more.

* * *

When Bilbo had woken up a couple of hours later, his head felt like it was on fire as it throbbed dully. He spent the next few minutes confused and lost over where he was. It took more than a few minutes to remember why he was confused and he had to spend until dusk finding himself again.

He then shuffled off to the bathroom, clutching at the wall to do so, and took a long bath. Thoughts brushed against his mind as always, feelings too close to his intertwined and strengthened them, while those not close to his own feelings were easily discarded by years of practice as not his. He sat in his bath till he could think once more without screaming in agony. He then got out of the tub and prepared for bed.

He had truly forgotten how, while thoughts cut in the moment, emotions saturated themselves into his being, hurting far worse in the long run. Despite living his life like he had, he still forgot how painful emotions were, even if finding his own was the easiest, tinged as they were with agony.

He let out a low sigh and tightened his robe around him, wondering why he was so _exhausted_ , when he realized that it wasn’t _his_ exhaustion he was feeling.

He stilled completely was he registered new emotions, distant, at the edge of his range, wrap around his, pressing against them in a familiar way. Following those emotions, he realized that rumbling, which he thought was just a part of his pounding headache, held the same cadence of _thoughts_ , meaning that’s what they were.

They just weren’t in any language Bilbo had ever heard, in any fashion, before.

Shaking his head slightly, he focused entirely on the thoughts closest to him and realized, with a start, that the resignation echoed hollowly through his soul even as it bore down on him, making him feel more exhausted than before. With gritted teeth, Bilbo focused to the point that the rumbling thoughts, like rolling thunder, nestled itself amongst his own thoughts. He couldn’t understand them, but swirling emotions (resignation, irritation), on top of his own emotions, nearly floored him.

So close, Bilbo could practically feel the path he was taking, and the angle that the emotions were coming from meant that it was highly likely the stranger would be taking the path past Bilbo’s home, most likely. Bilbo, carefully, returned to himself and found that he was, in fact, sitting on the ground. “Why must Eru test me so?” he inquired before he pulled himself to his feet, rushing to his pantry to make a large pot of soup.

Mostly because a stew would take too long, two hours, and an hour and a half if he rushed it and, while it was a fool’s hope, and a slightly terrifying thought, the idea of having anyone over for supper who wouldn’t fear and/or hate him was a refreshing one.

Soup would have to be enough till he could throw better together.

It was almost finished when Bilbo felt the thoughts and emotions come close. He was halfway to the door when he realized that they were coming up to meet him and was at the door when the bell rang.

And a feeling of dread that was all his own filled him.

* * *

“I should have listened to that feeling,” Bilbo murmured to himself as he stood out of the way as twelve Dwarves decimated his pantries and did other horrible things to his comfy smial.

He wanted to just go curl up on his bed and ignore it all at this point, but that was impossible, beyond the cacophony of noise taking up residence, not only in his ears, but in his mind as well. There were also the emotions _slammed_ against his own (battered) emotions, and Gandalf’s constant burning (though toned down greatly from earlier that day) didn’t help matters, but the main reason was because of the small pot of stew he was cooking in his kitchen (because he wasn’t deaf and Dwalin mention another).

This whole evening had just started with one Dwarf.

 _One_! One who had, admittedly, asked confusing questions and made even more confusing statements, but still, just one. One who was rude and had asked for more food, if more was being made, in a manner that suggested there should have been a feast prepared, leaving Bilbo off-balanced.

It wasn’t a feeling he was particularly fond of, but one he was overly familiar with.

Then it had been two Dwarves, then four, and…

Now this.

His soup had been quickly served (he never did get any of that) and after that food was being pulled from his pantries. He had wrung his hands, had glared at Gandalf, and resisted the urge to snarl, though he did snatch at some things, as he would like some food leftover (food that was now being used in the stew). The voices, loud before, grew louder as joy and laughter became infused with their words. Which left Bilbo on the outskirts, and Bilbo feels that familiar pain in his chest flare more brightly than before.

It is the familiar pain that is a mixture of envy, grief, and that distinct pain that came from another hope, another dream, being snuffed out.

Instead of focusing at that all too familiar stab of feelings, he focused on the desecrated pantry and getting angry at Gandalf, because Bilbo knows, for a fact, that it was Gandalf’s fault the Dwarves are here. For whatever purpose, it is Gandalf that has brought them here and so Gandalf is the reason behind the tentative comfort Bilbo’s given himself has been completely destroyed.

He wants to shake the Wizard until Gandalf understands, but refrains.

Barely.

Bilbo is sure the only reason he doesn’t go after the Dwarves for singing about blunting the knives and cracking the plates is because he’s somehow slipped into shock in the middle of all of this. When he rushes to find the dishes stacked up neatly, and cleanly, he practically heaves a sigh of relief, his legs feeling like uncooked dough.

He is ready to demand they at least put his dishes away when an ominous knocking fills his smial.

As Gandalf utters the ominous words of, “He’s here,” Bilbo can only wonder if maybe he should just hide in his bedroom till the Dwarves are gone and _damn_ the consequences.

He decides against it when he remembers that the final guest hasn’t eaten yet and, with an aching head and tired limbs, Bilbo puts the dishes up before he joins his, uninvited, guests at his own front door.

A long night just got longer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a difficult chapter for me. I rewrote it five times, and eventually it settled here happily and refused to change.
> 
> Sorry if it is...odd.
> 
> On a side-note for anyone wondering....
> 
> Belladonna's Gift was that she could always find the safest path home.
> 
> Bungo's Gift was that he could heal minor injuries (scrapes, bruises) and any major injuries healed cleaner and faster if he worked on it.
> 
> If you want to know any other Gifts other Hobbits possess, or have any other questions, just ask.


	4. Sight of Dragon Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin enters.
> 
> This ends about as well as you would expect.

Bilbo twitched as he felt the new Dwarf shove his thoughts, his emotions, before him like a wall to the point that, Bilbo wished he had, in fact, hidden away. At least if he was farther away, it would not feel like large stones being pressed onto his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Maybe, if he was lucky anyway.

He highly doubted it, however, as the strength, he was sure, would have reached all through Hobbiton and beyond, with the way he projected it so. His identity, Bilbo was sure, was wrapped up in there, with his emotions and thoughts and…

"Ah, Bilbo, allow me to introduce the leader of our Company, Thorin Oakenshield," Gandalf greeted, breaking Bilbo out of his trapped thoughts, and Bilbo stepped forward, already knowing he was a bit paler than earlier, was already feeling the side-effects of thirteen very loud personalities that had invaded and trampled over his home, his _sanctuary_ , without a care like a bee-stung bull that had broken into a field of wheat.

“Bilbo Baggins, at your service,” Bilbo greeted as he closed the door behind Thorin and Thorin eyed him, even as his emotions _beat_ on Bilbo’s mind, splintering his own shattered emotions further.

But that was second to the way this Dwarf eyed Bilbo in that way that told Bilbo he was being inspected and found wanting, which was something Bilbo was used to. It grated and skittered up his spine, but he bore it, much like he was bearing their thoughts and emotions, again. He was just thankful Gandalf’s thoughts and emotions were no longer like fire in his brain, but more like a pleasant hearth fire now, even if everyone else was like pressing rocks on his chest, or worse. “Axe or sword, Master Baggins?” Thorin questioned.

“Neither. The Shire have no use for axes or swords,” Bilbo answered, pointedly trying to _not_ think about when they would have been useful, though the weapons they had (slingshots, conkers, knives) had helped.

Not enough, never enough, too many dead and buried, because weapons didn’t feed anyone. Weapons wouldn’t heat up the homes or fill the bellies of children, or anything else _useful_ , except killing. Thorin snorted in the derisive way that most did when they thought Bilbo couldn’t hear them, forgetting that their minds were not safe from Bilbo’s wayward Curse, and their words not safe from the sharpest hearing in the North Farthing. “Just as I suspected. He looks more like a grocer than a burglar,” Thorin stated and walked away.

Bilbo closed his eyes briefly, head lowering slightly, before they opened and he squared his shoulders. With that, he walked past Gandalf, ignoring the Wizard’s relief, to get a bowl of stew and a mug of ale for Thorin.

He would not let anyone go without food within his home, even one who was extremely rude to the host. He walked out and set the bowl and mug in front of Thorin before he stepped away, ignoring the looks from everyone.

* * *

“The Lonely Mountain?” Bilbo questioned as he settled the candle to the side of the map, wondering why the name sounded familiar.

It didn’t help that the reciting of the words had every emotion in the room spike. Anger was a common vein between them all, though longing was there, as well as a desire to possess. To reclaim.

To reclaim…

 _Home_.

It was a foreign feeling, home. Bilbo hadn’t felt it for himself since he had gained his Gift (his Curse), but that feeling was always slightly different for each person who felt it. “Aye! Óin has read the portents and the portents say that it is time!” the loud, red haired, Dwarf with a long, thick, practically wild beard exclaimed.

Bilbo blinked a few times rapidly as he pulled away from the map, feeling odd flashes. Smokey images and the image of a mist covered mountain with ravens flocking to it. He distantly heard them still talking. “Ravens have been seen returning to the Mountain, as it was foretold. _When the birds of yore return to the Mountain, the reign of the beast shall end_ ,” the deaf Dwarf explained.

“Beast?” Bilbo asked, getting flickers of something.

Dread curled around his being, but it was not his, too sharp and old to be his. “Yes. That would be a reference to Smaug the Terrible, the Chiefest and Greatest Calamity of our Age,” the Dwarf with the hat explained, and Bilbo felt fire licking at him, dread clawing at his throat.

Bofur was giving a description of a dragon and Bilbo swallowed back the feeling of illness that crept up his throat until he managed to focus on Bofur. “Yes I know what a Dragon is,” Bilbo snapped, seeing a tinge of fire that _should not be there_ clinging to the edges of his vision.

He fought, hard, against his Curse, but he knew it would just give him a worse headache. “…gates are sealed. There is no way in,” the Dwarf that had come to his door second explained and Bilbo blinked twice, trying to regain his bearings.

Too many people, too much going on, too much pressing and invading his home, his little sanctuary he had cut out for himself. “That’s why we need a Burglar!” Ori exclaimed, and Bilbo looked up.

A Burglar?

“An expert, most likely,” Bilbo answered, catching up to the fact they were talking about the Lonely Mountain (which was so very familiar) and a beast, a dragon.

“And are you one?” the deaf Dwarf asked.

“Am I what?” Bilbo questioned, staring at the Dwarf who had spoken to him.

“He said he was an expert!” the Dwarf stated and Bilbo twitched a bit at that.

“I’m not…” he began to protest, before he fell silent.

Was he not a burglar, stealing the thoughts right out of people’s heads? Was that not a definition and instead Bilbo pressed his lips tightly together, even as Thorin ordered Balin to give Bilbo a contract and it was slapped into his chest.

Much like how Thorin’s emotions battered at his own emotions and Thorin’s thoughts pressed down on Bilbo’s own.

He took the contract away from the Dwarves, ignoring Thorin saying how he would not be responsible for Bilbo’s safety or life.

Well, at least Thorin was a step ahead of Bilbo’s relatives in honesty. Bilbo resisted the urge to snort at the fact Thorin was scorning one who had opened his home, admittedly slightly unwillingly, to his Company and one who could, potentially help them.

And then he read the contract.

1/14th of any profit, if any. Well, he wouldn’t be accepting any of that. Why give his relatives any more money that they didn’t deserve?

Oh, look, funeral arrangements. He’ll have to write some out. ‘Bury me where I fall, if you can, and send a letter home to say I am dead.’

Injuries not…

“Incineration?” Bilbo demanded.

“Oh, aye, melt the flesh right off your bones,” the hatted Dwarf explained and Bilbo stared at him blankly.

Had the Dwarf truly just said that? “Think furnace with wings,” the continued in a helpful tone.

Well, it seemed like a helpful tone. Bilbo felt his face pale as more flames licked at his vision. A large shadow, fear pounding in his chest, and painful, like the Fell Winter, but compounded by oh so many more and so many times folded over and shoved into a tiny spot and it _hurt_.

“Are you alright lad?” Balin asked.

“In a moment,” Bilbo panted out softly as he tried to regain his bearings, walking away.

But no, it was still there, still pressing onto his being, his soul, trying to make him shatter when nothing else had.

Thorin.

It was Thorin who felt that way.

Oh, Eru…he’d…he’d seen the dragon, seen…Smaug. Smaug the Terrible, Greatest and Chiefest Calamity of our Age.

He’d been there, he had watched…something.

It was foggy, in a way Hobbits were not, and Bilbo shivered a bit. “Flash of flame, searing flame, poof! Nothing more than a pile of ash,” the Dwarf continued and there was fire.

There was watching Dwarves, with guilt and regret and _pain_ burn alive and be crushed. It was mixed and muddled, the burnings, but Bilbo swallowed. “Air. I need…I need air,” he panted as he made for the front door, before stopping.

“Nope,” he stated, as it intensified, as another memory washed over him and dragged him into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's Gift sucks.
> 
> End of discussion.


	5. Home and History

Bilbo’s eyelids fluttered open to find that he was still on the floor with Gandalf leaning over him. He blinked a few more times and then glared, ignoring the swirl of emotions and thoughts as best as he could as he continued to glare up at Gandalf. “I need tea,” Bilbo stated as he slowly, carefully, made his way up, barely remembering to thank Gandalf for helping him up when the Wizard supported his arm.

He ignored the Dwarves as he made his way over to his mother’s chair and sat in it, feeling his muscles twitch and shiver despite the stillness. He was overloading, being forced to try and sort too much too fast and his body was trying to shut down on him, lock him down and away from the assault on his extra senses. He sighed as he lifted a shaky hand to rub through his hair, still shivering all over, when the smell of chamomile and honey curled through his nose.

He blinked his eyes open to find the silver haired Dwarf with the intricate hair style was holding a mug of tea before him. ‘Thank you,” Bilbo murmured and took it with shivering hands, wrapping his hands around his mother’s old mug.

He shivered and began to drink his tea slowly as he stared straight ahead, trying to keep from feeling what he usually did.

Disgust, that dismissal, within his sanctuary, _from it_ was harsh on Bilbo’s frail defenses, grating and damaging, digging hooks into his soul and leaving new wounds across the old festering ones.

He shivered slightly and tightened his grip on his tea, even as he closed his eyes again. “Are you all right?” Gandalf asked gently and Bilbo nodded a bit.

“Just…let me sit quietly a bit and I’ll be fine,” Bilbo answered.

“You’ve been sitting quietly for far too long! The world isn’t found in your books, it is out there, beyond the border of the Shire!” Gandalf retorted and settled on the chair that his father once claimed.

“I am a Baggins of Bag-End and I cannot just go running out into the big wide world!” Bilbo argued, though if he was arguing against the whisper in his mind that said no one would miss him or the whispers of the Shire, or even just trying to convince Gandalf to take his Dwarves and go, Bilbo couldn’t say.

He just knew that he had to argue.

“You are also a Took!” Gandalf exclaimed and Bilbo felt his teeth clench and his nose flare as he tamped down his anger and self-hatred and everything else bottled up inside his heart.

He locked it all away and when Gandalf started in the story about Bullroarer Took, he couldn’t stop the roll of his eyes even if he suppressed the groan. He had heard the story, had heard it many times, from Took cousins that braved the blue coat he wore and his mother who tried to encourage his adventuring streak, which he nurtured to just _get away_ and wasn’t this a far better escape.

A worthy escape even.

What better reason to escape the Shire than to help the Dwarves get their home back?

What better reason to escape…

“And invented golf all in the same day,” Gandalf finished and Bilbo can’t help but chuckle at the addition.

“You made that up,” Bilbo accused softly.

“Well…all good stories have a bit of embellishing,” Gandalf admitted as he shifted in his seat.

“You’ll have a tale or two to tell, when you come back,” Gandalf stated and Bilbo glanced up at him.

“Can you promise that I will come back?” Bilbo asked softly.

“No. And if you do, you’ll never be the same,” Gandalf answered and Bilbo felt a chill clutch at his heart.

Ice filled his veins and he looked out the window. He could stay, he should stay. He had duties, in a manner of speaking. No one would miss him though. If he stepped out that door come morning, no one would care, except Holman Greenhand. He’d leave instructions for him, and a key, ask him to take care of Bag-End.

There was no family who would ask about him, despite the fact he was hardly without connection in this world. His smial was his sanctuary from the people out there, and could it be worse?

Of course it could be worse. His brain could melt out his ears, he could collapse through overload, and be lost to his own Curse, forever stuck in the nightmare that was others’ thoughts and emotions, never able to find himself again.

He would be a liability.

He couldn’t risk their Quest, he couldn’t risk their home, with his Curse.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not the Hobbit you are looking for Gandalf. That…that Hobbit you remember is long gone and…and he can’t come back,” Bilbo answered as he stood, ignoring the crash of emotions as he set his mug to the side table.

“I’ll get the spare blankets, but I can’t,” Bilbo answered as he walked quickly away, ignore the surprise, the disappointment, _everything_ that grew over his own feelings and overtook them, like ivy kept unchecked.

He was pulling out the spare blankets that smelled of cedar when the first sound of humming filled the air. It rumbled through the air and then a voice began to sing.

Bilbo stood, arms full of blankets, as a deep voice, rumbling and low, began to sing of a long lost home. He hunched over the blankets in his arms, closing them tight against the images that came. Fire, dim and distant, an old _longing_ for what was or what could be and he grasped tighter at the blankets, as those familiar feelings rushed over him. He shivered and clung to the blankets tighter, inhaling deeply, neither the cedar scent nor the scratch of the wool blankets in his arms doing much to ground him.

Because that _longing_ for _home_ , he knows it better than any Hobbit in the Shire living.

He knew it, he knew it so well, and when the song is over, rumbling in his bones, Bilbo hands over the blankets and shows them the spare rooms, apologizing that he can’t help them get settled before he retreats to his bedroom, and shuts himself off from them physically.

But he can still feel and hear and taste that song and so it does no good.

* * *

The night has been spent with neither rest nor reprieve from Bilbo, at least one Dwarf awake throughout the night, for their sleeping emotions are a gentle lull against his own in comparison to the harsh, intrusive, way their emotions work when awake.

But it is the dark before the dawn and Bilbo gives up on sleep to instead slip out to his library. He ignores the spikes of anger, wariness, surprise, that come from any Dwarves awake and slips into his library, muttering to himself softly as he runs his fingers along the spines of his books.

He _knows_ he knows the Lonely Mountain! He knows he’s read the name and read the tale and… _ah_! There.

The search is quick, even in the dark as the lettering is stamped deep within the spine. Once upon a time, it might have been gilded with gold, but now it is only an aching emptiness of what was. He traces it, finding the soft dips and changes.

_The Kingdom of Dale at the Foot of the Lonely Mountain._

An interesting title to be sure, and one he was sure was improperly translated from the Eastern language of Dale to Westron over actually being a proper title of any sort, but it was good enough, which meant that…

Yes.

There was the one in the language of Dale, right to the right of it.

That had taken some true wheeling and dealing to get, but it had been worth every silver penny and gilded crown he had paid for it. It was his favorite book in the entirety of his library, purely because it was such a well-kept history and he carefully carried it over to his table. With a quick turn, the Dwarvish (not that he would tell the Dwarves that had invaded his smial that fact) lamp flickered into being, the flint inside sparking the wick which…then did something and Bilbo was not an engineer, he just appreciated that he only had to replace the candle once a week instead of twice a week, like his regular lamps.

Carefully angling the reflected light onto the book he opened it and began to read the sharp runes, muttering to himself softly as he began to read, flipping it quickly before he found it.

Lonely Mountain, or Erebor. Dwarvish kingdom.

Settled at some point back in their history, but Dale had come because of the Dwarves, the Dwarves hadn’t come for Dale, yes, yes, all love…

Smaug.

The name came after.

People, especially maidens, were captured by Smaug in the night to be devoured till they left. Well, that was just unpleasant.

Smaug sightings, up until about…

Bilbo flipped the pages, finding that the last sighting was eighty years ago, by the book’s reckoning as that was when it was completed, despite the fact they had moved to…Reed Town?

Bilbo frowned and shook his head. No, that was in the tongue of Dale.

Westron…westron…Lake-town maybe, for it was said to reside _on_ a lake.

Bilbo shuddered at that. He had never learned to swim and he ran a hand over the page before he flipped back to the history.

No recording…ah, Thorin.

Just the outside name, of course. Dwarves were so secretive, but not terribly secretive, if the names were written. Of course, here there were lots of lovely titles and other things, but mostly just…

Oh.

Lord of the Silver Fountains because they, the Dwarves, donated silver fountains. Quite straight-forward, these folk.

Bilbo liked them, a bit, even if just from their history, and he rubbed his lower arm before he focused back on the book.

But there, Lonely Mountain, taken over by a dragon, really called…

Blast, how did…

A loud snort-snore had Bilbo jumping out of his skin and he looked up, wincing at how stiff his neck was to find the gray of false dawn was spreading across the sky. Bilbo blinked and then stared down at the book.

 _The Chronicles of Dale’s Past at the Mountain’s Foot_.

It made no mention of the Lonely Mountain, not by name at the very least, so…why such specificity in the later book?

Bilbo frowned again, even as he did another quick twist of the switch on the special lamp to have it choke out the light, somehow, since he knew how to blow out normal lamps, but the Dwarf one just…worked.

He sighed softly and closed the book on Dale, slumping over it slightly.

That was how he knew the name, at any rate, and it was a sadder tale than what the Dwarves knew, which was the true tragedy. History lost like that, tales fallen into dust.

Bilbo sighed and left his library, slipping through the still sleeping Dwarves and shutting himself away again. He had thought only to sit for a moment on his bed, but when he awoke, it was to the rising sun hitting him in the eyes, curled up tight on the top of his bed.


	6. An Adventure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slightly Suicidal Thoughts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun things you can skip over if you wish.
> 
> 1) I am doing the Hobbit Big Bang.
> 
> Because I am INSANE (not certifiably, but I am) I want my fics finished by the time Rough Drafts are due. I will settle (at this point) for them being mostly finished.
> 
> 2) School, hopefully my last semester before I transfer to university (cross fingers and wish me luck) has started back up for me, which means homework first, then writing. (I have finished most of it, in case you were wondering.)
> 
> Which brings us to...
> 
> 3) Updates are going to be even slower than before, especially between school and Hobbit Big Bang fic.
> 
> I think that covers it all.
> 
> Oh, and this is a bridging chapter, but it finished where it finished and I refuse to argue with chapters anymore.

Bilbo frowned into the sun, groaning as a headache pounded behind his eyes, across his skull, and down his neck. He closed his eyes as he curled up tighter on top of his bed, clutching at his head, digging his fingernails into his scalp, shuddering. He tensed instinctively, expecting his thoughts and emotions to be assaulted, only to discover there was only the gentle lapping of sleeping Hobbits close by. Some were up and about, yes, but still in that half-asleep state that meant Bilbo found his very pain-filled thoughts and streaked emotions easily.

It was only then that he felt the distinct  _lack_  of any Dwarves within the near vicinity.

With a low groan, he shifted slightly, stilling with a whimper of pain before he forced himself to, slowly, sit up. His feet hung off the edge of the bed, just above the ground. Distantly, Bilbo registered the slight chill that clung to the air meaning that they had left, most likely, shortly after Bilbo had retreated, a second time, to his room.

He squeezed his eyes shut all the tighter, despite how it made his head ache _more_ than before, his body tensing as more Hobbits awoke throughout the Shire. Their thoughts of breakfast made his own stomach gurgle to remind him he hadn’t eaten since Lunch yesterday, which had been an apple or four, certainly not enough to constitute as a meal.

With a long sigh, he slid out of his bed, letting out another whimper as his body was jarred by the impact. With a shaky sigh, he opened his eyes, wincing at the light, before he snuck out of his bedroom, just in case he had suddenly become ‘deaf’ to Dwarves.

He crept through his smial with barely a whisper of wind to announce his presence, checking in each room for the Dwarves, but finding only empty rooms.

The bedding had been carefully folded at the foot of every bed or, in some cases, on top of the nearest proper surface. There was no sign that they had used his kitchen, not that there was anything to cook with considering that they had eaten it all the night before. A few more minutes of searching had proven that there was no sort of payment to replace the eaten food either, which made Bilbo twitch slightly before he sighed, letting it go.

Gandalf had probably told them they were expected and, as such, probably did not think they had to pay him back. Bilbo sighed heavily and rubbed his temples, trying to alleviate the headache even as the _wave_ of woken thoughts and emotions crashed over him.

He groaned again as a Waking Memory washed over him, of ice that bit at his toes and he hunched over briefly before he managed to step into his den. The light streamed through the window, which made him wince again. “I am sure this much light in my smial is due to some Light Gift being used,” he grumbled as he glanced around the room when he stilled upon seeing the contract he had given back the night before.

He walked over to the contract and saw the names signed on the line that hadn’t been there the night before. His fingers hovered above the two signatures, Balin’s almost soft and gentle in comparison to Thorin’s sharp lines. He heard more thoughts lifting up around his mind, trying to derail his thoughts and he looked over at the window. The sun was bathing the Shire in its light and flowers were blooming. Summer was going to be passing soon and where would the Dwarves be then?

He clenched his hands into fists at his sides, swallowing harshly. He could _not_ go. He _would not_ endanger them! He would not put them at risk because of his… _Curse_!

He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, not having realized he had closed them, only to see the contract.

The contract that he had given back the night before, that had been signed in the night, despite his insistence that he would not be joining them on their quest. That he would not risk their Quest on his _Curse_ , though he had not told them that part.

That he would _not_ be going and yet, here was the contract, signed properly, omitting his own signature.

He was _not going_!

There was a soft cry in his soul, a part Bilbo wondered was his own or another’s, that sobbed for escape. To leave this pretty green prison and his eyes returned to the window, staring out across the Shire.

It was beautiful, really, but weren’t all gilded cages?

With a deep breath, and before Bilbo could remind himself, again, why this was a bad idea, he grabbed the contract, running to his study.

Bless the Forest Father and Garden Mother that he had the foresight to settle his affairs in case he ever just dropped everything and ran, like he was doing now.

He signed the contract just as Holman’s familiar thoughts stabbed through his brain.

* * *

Bilbo tugged on the red coat of someone who was not sure they would return and made sure his pack was filled with necessities only. He grabbed the tied leather folder for Holman and the contract from the desk and he ran out the door. He paused only long enough to press the folder into Holman’s hands with a soft, “Thank you,” and then he was off.

He ran down Bag-shot Row and towards the edge of the Shire where rumbles like rock slides of long ago echoed. He ran faster, no one trying to stop him or keep him back, not that Bilbo expected that.

Only one did, and Bilbo did not hesitate to shout back exactly what he was doing.

He was going on an adventure!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise fun, I am trying out a new headcanon that popped into my head.
> 
> Vána (Garden Mother) and Oromë (Forest Father) created the Hobbits with Eru's blessing.
> 
> (Flowers AND aiming! YAY! So cute. They are fun. I might write a "Vána and Oromë Watch Their Children as They Grow" thing.)
> 
> (I already have ideas.)
> 
> (Vána is fun!)


	7. Travelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mention of some thought of doing self-harm, but no self-harm actually happens.
> 
> Also, as I said in the Chapter Three Author's Notes at the top, Gandalf has no idea that Bilbo is Gifted. Because the last time he saw Bilbo, his Gift still hadn't awakened and it had already been past the time Gifts usually awakened.
> 
> So, Gandalf thinks that Bilbo is unGifted.

Bilbo was starting to think he should have just stayed home.

It wasn’t the fact he had forgotten his handkerchief that got to him, even if he had to sneeze in the cut out pocket that the Dwarf, Bofur, had thrown at him. He used it even though he knew it was for a joke. He could _feel_ it was a joke when the laughter, as well as the amusement, had rippled through the Company with the laughter.

Never mind that he had agreed to come with him. Never mind he had _no stake at all_ in this Quest! He…had nothing keeping him here and yet he soon found himself quickly, almost violently, excluded.

It was almost like the Shire, except he could only understand their thoughts when the forcibly thought in Westron right before they spoke with him and it was a worse headache. He resisted the urge to sigh as he settled out of the way, or as much as he _could_ settle out of the way, with his dinner. He poked at it a bit, his headache making his appetite practically disappear even as he focused on eating.

He nearly dropped his bowl when someone sat next to him and glanced over, blinking in surprise when he saw it was Ori sitting there.

He sat off by himself more often than not and, the few times someone joined him, it was usually Balin, Fíli and Kíli, or Bifur. While Balin seemed inclined to try and figure out why Bilbo had agreed when Bilbo had answered the question of, “What will you do with your share Mister Boggins?” with a simple, “Probably leave it with Erebor,” and Fíli and Kíli were well… Fíli and Kíli, Bifur seemed to be the only one who wished to spend any time with Bilbo for no reason at all except that he wished to.

The fact _Ori_ had joined him, when neither the woolen (in thought and manner) scribe, nor his older brothers, had reached out to him, had Bilbo glancing around subtly to see if either of Ori’s brothers were nearby. When he couldn’t spot them, Bilbo looked back over at Ori, who was finishing his meal.

He felt Ori’s thoughts shift easily to Westron, a smooth glide which told Bilbo that he was the only one who wasn’t _upset_ by using it. “I was wondering, Master Baggins, if you wouldn’t mind telling me a bit about Hobbits?” Ori asked and Bilbo felt his eyebrows raise slightly before he smiled.

“Of course Ori. I’ll do my best,” he answered, ignoring twin protective spikes of emotion, one of which was like taking a kick to the head, the other like a fine knife sliding between the ribs.

* * *

Bilbo leaned against Myrtle’s neck as she chomped on her apple, trying to focus only on the mare’s thoughts and feelings. He heard her soft nicker, felt the way she was concentrated on him, shifting in place to support him better. The pony mare curled her head around and lipped at his elbow, her apple finished, and then the Orc cries echoed through the air.

Myrtle immediately focused toward the sound, fear jolting Bilbo out of his concentration and he gasped. “What was that?” he asked, though he knew, unable to separate Myrtle’s near mindless fear mixed with confusion from his own knowledge briefly.

And oh…ow…that hurt, that rush of rumbling he had managed to keep at bay when focused on Myrtle. He could only manage to do that with animals, but he hated encroaching on their peace, especially when he remembered how Ivy had subtly changed over time, almost becoming more intelligent, more…aware.

Myrtle nickered softly, nuzzling his shoulder as he walked forward, Bilbo petting her cheek before he headed back to the campfire. Kíli was whispering about Orc raids, but he was talking about how they were quiet, which they weren’t.

No, they screamed and howled, letting you know they were coming. They wanted you to be afraid, wanted that scent to taint your flesh and…“You know nothing of the world!” Thorin growled, brushing past Bilbo and knocking him out of memories, both his and others.

When Balin comes forward, trying to soothe ruffled feathers, Bilbo resisted the urge to say something about Thorin not being the only one having to watch ones they love die at the hands of Orcs. He also says nothing, after hearing the tale, beyond asking what happened to Azog.

He’s felt grief, from all kinds of people in all sorts of flavors, to know that just because one way of seeing a loved one’s death _seemed_ more traumatic than another’s, didn’t mean it was.

* * *

Bilbo sighed as he rode through the downpour, ignoring how the rain soaked him to the bone. After all, it was nothing compared to the feeling of contempt and pity, the mutterings that took a sharp turn whenever he came into sight, that sunk deep into his marrow. It made him tempted to do as he had as a child and try to carve the bad feelings that made him want to be sick out of his skin. He clenched his hands into fists and winced when he felt Myrtle’s surprise at the jerk shock him out of his thoughts.

He immediately eased up on the reins and hummed a bit as he pat her neck where it met her shoulder. “Sorry girl,” he murmured softly and the mare stretched her head out before she settled down, meandering through the pouring rain as they continued along.

“…for another Wizard!” Gandalf stated and Bilbo frowned a bit.

“Are there?” Bilbo asked.

“Are there other Wizards?” Bilbo clarified, resisting the urge to glare, though Myrtle’s ears pinned back briefly.

“There are five Wizards. The head of our Order, and the wisest, is Saruman the White. Then there are the two Blue Wizards. You know, I’ve quite forgotten their names. And finally, there is Radaghast, the Brown,” Gandalf responded and Bilbo waited patiently for a few more minutes before he gave in to ask.

“And is he a great Wizard or is he a…bit like you?” Bilbo inquired and smiled when he felt Gandalf’s feathers being ruffled over that assumption.

And even if the rain continued to soak him to the bone, he was…content.

Myrtle let out a low nicker, one ear flicking back towards Bilbo and he reached forward, rubbing her neck as they continued to plod through the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE TROLLS ARE NEXT!!!


	8. More Travelling and Trolls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this Chapter
> 
> Blood, so much blood
> 
> Small loss of self

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll post on Tumblr later.

Bilbo inhaled slowly as he tried to focus on the world around him, the pressure growing inside his mind. It didn't help that he could feel the skittering, jumbled, crashing feeling of Bifur's thoughts coming closer and he slowly looked up when Bifur sat down in front of him. The Dwarf with the axe in his head leaned forward into Bilbo's space, eyes narrowing as Bilbo stared back tiredly, and can't stop wince when he feels Bifur focus on him. That narrow-minded focus on him, reminding him that this Dwarf is a warrior, has fought, and carries a boar spear.

His focused attention  _hurts_ because this is someone who has needed to have this razor sharp focus to  _hunt_ and it shows in the way it cuts through his brain. And suddenly it is gone, eased up and Bilbo lets out a sigh through his nose slumping slightly, twitching when a rough hand pats his head.

Bifur walks away after that and Bilbo slowly stands before he wanders over to Myrtle. The pony immediately perks up at his approach, nickering lowly as he settles against her neck, burying his face into her mane, even if it makes him sneeze. He concentrates on Myrtle, the way she is focused on him, one ear turned towards him. She is quiet, almost like Ori, and he wishes he had an apple to give her, pulling it from his own rations. He relaxes when she nuzzles his elbow, the part closest to her nose and he relaxes until the throbbing pressure recedes enough to allow him to at least attempt to sleep.

* * *

Bilbo didn’t hesitate to hand his bowl of stew over to Ori the next evening, nausea curling around his throat. The scribe, thankfully, didn’t drop it, confusion tinted with concern (concern over what? Did Bilbo accidentally slosh some onto his book?) flowing around the other numerous day to day emotions people had that never even registered (all layered, like a cake) and he twitched slightly when Ori’s hand rested on his wrist. He felt the flow shift into Westron, the words wrapping around Bilbo’s head as if put in enough layers could protect him.

Huh, he hadn’t felt that since he was small and his mother got very… “Are you all right Master Baggins?” he asked softly, knocking Bilbo’s thoughts off course.

Bilbo nodded slowly, swallowing harshly as he felt the nausea almost shift into vomiting. “I’m fine, Master Ori,” Bilbo answered softly and Ori’s disbelief nearly had him laughing.

“You don’t look fine,” Ori muttered as he set the bowl to the side, next to his book, and suddenly leaned into Bilbo’s space.

Bilbo leaned back slightly, blinking at the wool feeling intensified, but at the same time like…the scratch of a quill over paper, but in a way that was felt instead of heard. He watched Ori, who seemed unconcerned by the fact Dori was now making quiet protests over how Ori was invading Bilbo’s space.

Bilbo watched him, even as Ori stared at him. “I’m as fine as I ever am Master Ori,” Bilbo corrected softly and Ori snorted a bit before he pulled back.

“If this is how you are all the time, Master Baggins, I may have to tell Dori about how Hobbits can’t swim and how easily you get sick as a whole. I could use the relief from the mother-henning,” Ori stated and Bilbo gave Ori a small smile, relieved that the scratching feeling had gone away.

“You are more devious than Master Nori, Master Ori,” Bilbo murmured softly and Ori’s surprised joy was like the sun breaking through a thunderstorm at its brightest.

* * *

“Master Boggins, why do you like Ori more than us?” Kíli asked as they rode on the next day.

Fíli was riding on the other side of Bilbo, ensuring that Bilbo couldn’t just ride away from them. They were making his head hurt as well, considered Kíli’s Westron had the speed and excitement of fauntlings hyped up on sugar while waiting to see Gandalf’s fireworks while Fíli’s were a weaker, though no less steadfast version of Thorin’s trying to shove his way into Bilbo’s brain and take residence there, which _no_ that would _not be happening_ thank you very much!

“He doesn’t give me headaches,” Bilbo grumbled and before he could give Myrtle the signal to get them out of there or something, he felt Myrtle shifting under him in an odd fashion.

Bilbo squeaked and grabbed onto her mane, nearly dropping the reins, as Kíli’s mount squealed and danced away. It took Bilbo a few moments for him to realize Myrtle had kicked out at Kíli’s mount, getting the other pony away from them, and she didn’t hesitate. With a lashing tail, the mare picked up speed, trotting away from the two headache causers, which nearly unseated Bilbo before she settled into a walk next to Balin’s mount.

“That wasn’t nice laddie,” Balin scolded.

“I can barely sit properly on Myrtle, Balin. What makes you think I could make her kick out at Kíli’s pony and get her into a trot? The last few times we’ve gone over a walk, the only reason she did was so she wouldn’t get left behind,” Bilbo muttered, noting how one of Myrtle’s ears is turned back towards him, the other flicking about.

“All the same laddie,” Balin stated and Bilbo just nods a bit, noting how Myrtle’s ears switch so the one closest to Balin swivels around while the other keeps pointed back to Bilbo.

He reaches out to her, because he’s grown used to that as they meander around in circles (at least, they do whenever Thorin leads, even though speed is of the essence on this Quest), he nearly flinches back when he _understands_ what Myrtle is ‘saying’ without needing to translate it over.

_‘I am here.’_

Bilbo swallows and twists his fingers into the bottom of her mane. “I thought we had rid you of that habit laddie,” Balin mused, but Bilbo just shakes his head as Myrtle nickers soothingly.

He can’t explain without revealing too much about Hobbit society and he doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want people to think that these Gifts are useful outside of the Shire or dragging Hobbits with the Garden Gift to places that need farmers and just…no.

No, it is best he doesn’t explain.

Doesn’t explain how he has done it _again_ and this time, he doesn’t have grief to explain away how it happened.

* * *

Bilbo has hooked Myrtle’s reins around…something to keep them from slipping and kept his head bowed as he rubbed his temples. He wondered what was causing the intense pressure on his brain, twitching a bit when a ringing began as the Company continued onward.

By the time they reached the ruin of a farm, Bilbo was shaking his head a bit, trying to get the ringing to stop, even if it made his head ache further. He dismounted when Thorin called for them to camp _there_ for the night and he stumbled slightly as his feet hit the ground, his head swimming slightly. “You all right there laddie?” Balin asked gently, one hand coming up to support his elbow.

“Fine, just…lots of riding,” Bilbo answered, Balin’s concern confusing him as much as Ori’s had before he remembered that he was the Company’s Burglar.

They needed him to sneak into Erebor for…something because Smaug wouldn’t know Hobbits. Bilbo thought that impractical and it might have been best if they got a Man or something to do that because what if the Dragon was _alive_?

What if it _woke up_?

A strange smell would only keep such a large creature curious for so long before he decided Bilbo would make a nice snack. He flinched when he felt a flare of fiery rage matched against the stubborn rage of a mountain crashed through his mind, Myrtle snorting when he crashed into her shoulder.

Bilbo blinked rapidly and paled when he saw that Gandalf was leaving. “Gandalf, where are you going?” he asked, taking a step away from Myrtle.

“To spend time with the only one with any common sense, Master Baggins!” Gandalf snapped and Bilbo frowned.

“And who is that?” Bilbo inquired, not ruffled at all about being snapped at.

He knew Gandalf was stressed about…something, though he nearly scoffed when Gandalf answered, “Myself, Master Baggins! I’ve had enough of Dwarves for today.”

He felt a surge of anger not his own, signifying that others had heard Gandalf, but didn’t do anything except turn back to Balin. “He will be back, won’t he?” Bilbo asked and was not comforted by the fact Balin merely shrugged.

* * *

As night spread across the land, Bilbo felt his nausea rise and the pressure increase on his head, as if it was being squeezed, though the vice had knives added to the inside of it now, stabbing into his mind. The ringing had also gotten louder, making it rather difficult for him to concentrate. “He’s been gone for a while,” Bilbo muttered as he walked back towards the Dwarves, thankful he hadn’t eaten.

He was sure it would be coming back up right now if he had, especially as the fire was making it feel like it was burning into his eyeballs.

_‘Take this to the lads will ya?’_

“Sure, I’ll bring the boys their food,” Bilbo muttered, taking the bowls from Bofur, before he stumbled towards where the boys were watching the ponies.

He moved silently though for some reason, between one blink and the next, the steel trap attached to his head clamping down harsher with each step, his vision became very…blurry. He whimpered softly and was so very thankful to see the vague _shapes_ of Fíli and Kíli, that he stumbled toward them.

It was only when he was next to them that he realized that they were _nervous_ and he swallowed harshly. “What’s wrong?” he inquired, gritting his teeth when he felt their thoughts grind together till they were in Westron.

“We’re supposed to be looking after the ponies, but we’ve run into a slight…problem,” Fíli explained.

“We had sixteen ponies but now there are only fourteen,” he continued and Bilbo blanched slightly.

Bilbo twitched before he focused on the boys, as best as he was able. “Which ones are missing?” Bilbo asked and resisted the urge to sigh when the boys marched off.

“Bungo and Minty,” Fíli reported, Kíli having fallen oddly silent.

“We should tell Thorin,” Bilbo stated and Fíli immediately set into panic, which had Bilbo’s heart racing as well as making him feel far too dizzy.

Oh, he was so very thankful he hadn’t eaten now.

“No, let’s not do that,” Fíli stated.

“We were thinking that, since you are Company Burglar, you could find out what took them,” Kíli added.

Bilbo resisted the urge to glare at them. He was tempted to grab Myrtle and march back to camp to inform Thorin of the missing ponies, before he sighed and gave in, still holding their bowls of food. “Well…it was very big and…quite possibly very dangerous,” Bilbo responded, feeling as if he should just curl up and not move when the pressure suddenly increased.

_‘Light. A campfire!’_

Kíli’s voice, somehow, sounded like direct sunlight in the eyes after a night of heavy drinking and Bilbo winced, even as he began to follow them. He held tightly to the bowls as he trailed after them, crashing through the underbrush having them duck down to hide. He could hear the boys talking, but there was also a great deal of excitement and thought over how Mountain Trolls were a good way to prove themselves.

Bilbo gaped slightly, wondering if the lack of common sense and pure _stupidity_ went through _all_ Dwarves, or just this particular Company. He was about to demand that they head back when he felt Myrtle’s familiar presence. “They’ve got Myrtle! We’ve got to do something!” he hissed.

“Yes, you should!” Kíli stated and Bilbo felt Kíli’s bowl being taken from his hands, even as the rush of a plan began to form in the boys’ heads.

Bilbo began to protest, even as Fíli took his bowl, both Dwarves pushing him towards the Trolls. “Mountain Trolls are big, slow, and stupid. You are so small, they won’t even notice you!” Fíli pressed.

“And if you get into trouble, hoot once like a brown owl and twice like a barn owl!” Kíli finished with another shove.

Bilbo blinked rapidly, trying to figure out how he was supposed to even get to the Trolls’ camp when he could barely see it. “Once like a…what?” Bilbo questioned and turned back, but it was only then that he realized they were gone.

He felt his mouth dry out and he inhaled sharply.

They had left him alone, without a weapon, to burgle back their ponies from a bunch of Mountain Trolls, which shouldn’t even be down here in the first place! Oh…oh, they had come and probably killed whoever was at that farm. They probably ate them and…oh, Bilbo gagged slightly on nothing at the thought.

He was about to run back to camp, just tell Thorin, when he remembered Myrtle.

He couldn’t leave Myrtle here. Not when he had changed her like he changed Ivy, made her more aware. Ivy had left when her muzzle was gray and she began to move stiffly, so Bilbo wouldn’t have to face her death and he wouldn’t leave Myrtle to be eaten long before her prime.

With a deep inhale, he began to move forward, wincing when he began to feel dizzier the closer he got to the Trolls. He felt as if there was a warmth spreading through his nose, but he didn’t care, just focused on getting to the pen that holds the ponies. He stilled, feeling them talk around him, around him, keeping quiet as they complain about their food and fight, a bit, amongst themselves.

He got to the pen, his heart pounding from almost being caught, feeling grass shift to dirt under his toes as he crouched by the pen. The ponies were snorting and Bilbo tried to shush them as he tugged futilely on the rope that held the pen closed. It felt as if it was…sticky with something, which he tried not to think on, even as the fear of the ponies mixed with his own, making him feel dizzier. He clutched at the pen, trying to shush them, reaching out with his mind hesitatingly, trying to calm them down, relieved as they quieted, the fear lessening greatly.

He tried not to think too deeply on the fact he could, apparently, do to others what others did to him and instead focused on finding a sharp object to cut through the rope. He tried to move while still partially crouched before he nearly fell. He stayed crouched on all fours for a few more moments, listening to the Trolls grumble about the food and the cook snarl back before he began to crawl along the ground, blinking in hopes of clearing his vision, their cooking fire burning his eyeballs.

He flinched back when he touched the bones of Men, slowly crawling until he pulled himself to his feet, spying a constructed knife hanging off a Troll’s belt.

Well, he hoped that was what it was. If it wasn’t, Bilbo was going to have to leave the ponies and just…he couldn’t do that. He slowly made his way closer to the Troll, he grasped the construct, which was, in fact, a knife now that he was close enough to see it. He almost had it off when he suddenly felt himself being picked up and…sneezed on.

He felt frozen, the steel trap _clamping_ down on his head which almost made him bite his tongue to hold back the scream of agony as he felt something thick start dribbling out of his nose as heat spread across his forehead, around his eyes, and across his cheeks. He trembled slightly as they focused on him, Bilbo reeling in agony.

This…this was strange. It was never this bad before. “I’m a Burglahobbit!” Bilbo snapped, trying to get them to stop focusing, oh ow, digging, digging pressure, push, shove, try to take over, nonononono _no_!

“Are there anymore of you Burglahobbits around here?”

“No!” Bilbo protested, though he was pretty sure he wasn’t believed when he got very vivid images of him being slowly burned from the toes up.

He gasped when he felt something…someone else, stab into his mind, and a snarl of, “Drop him!” cut through the air.

Oh, lovely, it was Kíli. The hyperactive, sugar high, faunt with a mind voice when excited like sunlight stabbing into hungover eyes was going to save him and Bilbo isn’t sure if he should be laughing or shouting at the idiot to _run_!

He struggled as best as he could, desperately trying to get out of the too tight hold they had on him. He could barely breathe and suddenly he was flying through the air. Pain lanced through his ribcage as the pair crashed to the ground, Bilbo scrambling off of Kíli as the cry of Dwarves entering battle filled the air. The rage and battle fury surged through Bilbo, making him feel queasy because he knew it was not his, even as he tried to make his way through the fight.

He needed to free the ponies, the once again panicking ponies, and Bilbo found the knife, the Troll’s knife, fallen to the ground probably because it wasn’t strapped properly anymore. Bilbo didn’t care, he had it, and he immediately went to the pen, sawing through the rope. He threw it to the side, out of the way, as he shoved it open and _pushed_. The ponies didn’t need much encouragement to take off, Bilbo swaying slightly when he felt that pressure bit back down on his mind.

He swerved away from the reaching Troll hand and right into the other. Within seconds, he was hauled into the air, being threatened to be drawn and quartered. Well…that was pleasant, and Bilbo panted as he felt fear. He thought Kíli shouted his name, but the ringing in his ears had taken a sharp turn, though he knew he couldn’t be hearing two voices chanting _All my fault, all my fault, this is my fault_ , with his ears with how bad the ringing had become.

When he was shoved into a sack, Bilbo distantly registered that his nose itched and used the fact the burlap was close to scratch his nose, only for the burlap to become stained with blood.

Oh…that was probably not a good sign, was it?

He stared dumbly, reeling and trying to think, which was difficult when all he could feel was rage not his own, and desperation and fear.

He blinked a bit and frowned a bit at the images that were flashing across his vision, trying to make sense of why statues of Trolls would be…

“I don’t fancy being turned to stone!”

Bilbo briefly wondered if he had the strength to stand up before he forced himself up. “Wait! You’re doing it all wrong!” he shouted, swaying on his feet, scrambling to find the Trolls’ thoughts.

Ingredients, he needed thoughts on ingredients and he would think about the fact Westron seemed to be their native language later, not now. There! The cook, most likely, was contemplating using sage and hopefully he had said as much. “Wot are you talkin’ about?” the Troll demanded as all three focused on Bilbo, which made the pressure increase on his mind.

“Well, you’re going to need a lot more than sage before you plate this lot up! I mean, have you even smelled them?” Bilbo explained, grasping for stronger spices or something, anything.

He thought about how they were going to cook the ponies, and tried to distract the Trolls. Talked about how they had to be skinned first, and he felt multiple rages intruding on his mind. He could hear, he thought he could hear, them snarling death threats, but Bilbo didn’t care. He needed to distract till morning, till sunrise, and he grappled for something when he felt Bombur’s spike of fear. “Not that one! He’s infected with worms in his…tubes!” Bilbo grappled, trying to save Bombur, who had been neutral towards him (better than a majority of the Dwarves in the Company).

He winced at the spike of pain and revulsion that joined everything else as he tried to stay on his feet, even as he swayed. “Wot should we do then, let ‘em go?” the cook snarled and Bilbo could feel the pressure building building _building_ and…

As he nodded he felt a pop and it suddenly sounded like he was submerged in water. He panted a bit, trying desperately to hold onto thoughts, but it was scattered as he began to panic. He thinks he said something in response to a thought, but he’s not sure and… _he can’t breathe_!

The sunlight stabs through his eyes, terror fills his mind, terror that is not his, and he collapses, curled up, as he is pulled under everyone’s emotions and the dying shouts of the Trolls, losing himself under the swarm of Others.

The last anything he can claim as his own is the hope no one else feels what he can feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may have guessed if you read, you know, anything of mine, I often have the characters bond with their equine companions. This is based off the fact that...yeah, I have a love of equines and some of my strongest human-animal bonds have come from the time I spent with horses, so there is that.
> 
> Also, on the whole "added awareness"; this is what happens when I read _The Immortals_ quartet and think, "fudge, that would make some sense," and someone agrees with me.


	9. Counting Ponies and Cleaning Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some seizures in this section, and Ori calls it "convulsing."

Ori glanced around as he helped to gather up the ponies with Fíli and Kíli (for some reason) frowning when he realized that there were fifteen ponies. "I know you two lost four of our ponies," Ori stated as he lead his two over to where they were moving them, ignoring Kíli's indignant, "Hey!" at the statement.

"What's the point Ori?" Fíli questioned as Ori tied Minty, a sweet gray pony, so long as you weren’t riding her, next to Poppy, a black beast who took an odd pleasure in biting anyone who wasn’t Ori.

"So why do we have fifteen ponies?" Ori questioned as he began to count the ponies again.

Kíli blinked and looked around, counting. “Myrtle. Myrtle is missing,” Fíli stated as he stepped up.

“Bilbo’s pony is missing? The reason he went after those Trolls is missing?” Kíli asked and Ori stared at him.

“Oh, so it _was_ your mess he was cleaning up,” Ori stated as he stepped away from Poppy, ignoring the grumbles.

“I wonder how he cut the ropes. Fíli hates lending his knifes. Did you let Bilbo borrow your knife Kíli?” Ori questioned and the silence filled the air.

He turned to them, slowly, feeling his eye twitch. “You _did_ lend him your knife, didn’t you Kíli? Because, if you didn’t, you basically set him up for failure _on top of_ having him clean up _your_ mess,” Ori stated, feeling his shoulder muscles tense.

They immediately focused on their ponies and Ori stood up straight. His mind searched for an appropriate promise and his eyes narrowed. “I’m telling Dori,” he stated and turned on his heel as he began to make his way back to the Trolls and the cave beyond.

He heard the Princes following after him, but he didn’t slow, didn’t waiver. He ignored their pleading, because Ori was going to tell Dori and unleash that disappointment upon them. Or, Dori would tell Balin, and _Balin_ would unleash that disappointment upon them and _that_ was going to be something Ori would sit back an-

His brain halted upon seeing Myrtle lying on the ground, back to the path. She was in the partially upright position that suggested her legs were curled partially under her and he jumped back when she twisted her head around, nearly scraping her nose against the rock, to fix him with one of her now too intelligent eyes.

He remembered her, when she had been bought, Dori dragging him along to barter for them. She had been picked for her gentle eyes and the way she would be good for a Hobbit that would probably not know how to ride, no matter how good a burglar he was. She had been chosen because of her eyes, which were now…

Now they were sharp and focused as she stared at the three of them before she snorted and twisted her head back to nuzzle at something on the ground, which let out a…sound. Ori wasn’t sure how to describe it and he took a step closer, watching as Myrtle’s ear turned toward him.

When Kíli tried to take a step forward though, she was suddenly surging to her hooves, almost hitting the rock near her, with a squeal. Her ears had disappeared against her head and Kíli stilled at the sight of an enraged pony. The sound had drawn some Dwarves, but Myrtle was standing there, slowly backing up, cautious of the lumpy sack on the ground.

When Fíli took a step forward, Myrtle surged with another enraged squeal, teeth strong enough to take off a finger, even a Dwarven one, snapping threateningly close to Kíli’s hand before she backed away once more.

Her hooves skirted the sack as she turned around, back hooves unmoving as she faced the other Dwarves. She shifted to eye them as well, even as Ori stayed perfectly still, wondering if he was allowed to move. His breath hitched as she turned to him and reached for him. She snorted and let her ears flick back slightly before she grabbed his coat sleeve with her lips and tugged at him lightly.

He followed each tug until he found himself staring down at Bilbo’s curls. “Bilbo!” Ori cried out, dropping to Bilbo’s side as the mare danced away.

“Bilbo?” Kíli questioned and he must have taken a step forward because Myrtle was spinning around, screaming again, but Ori was trying to figure out where all the _blood_ that was coating Bilbo’s _face_ and going into his _hair_ was coming from, gentle as he pulled Bilbo close to him, wincing at the whining whimper.

Bilbo shuddered and convulsed slightly, which prompted Ori to unwrap his scarf and push it under Bilbo’s head to be used as a pillow. His eyes were glassy and…so much blood. There was so much blood, coating everything and Ori looked up, searching for someone, only to find Myrtle standing pointedly between Bilbo and, consequently, Ori and the rest of the Company. “Myrtle,” he called and the mare, who was watching the Company, flicked an ear towards him.

“Myrtle, I need Óin!” Ori cried and Myrtle’s ear twitched again.

The mare’s sides heaved and she nodded once, before she walked toward the bulk of the Company.

Kíli didn’t hesitate.

The moment Myrtle was far enough away, Kíli rushed to Bilbo’s side, only to back off so fast he nearly brained himself on the _Troll_ when Bilbo _screamed_ as if he was being tortured. Myrtle twisted like a snake with hooves, though she didn’t _scream_ this time only to snort sharply when she saw Kíli being held by Fíli next to the stone Troll before she turned back to the Company.

Her ears flicked and she moved, ignoring Dori, who rushed to Ori’s side once she passed him. Holding Bilbo, he noticed Dori do a quick check of him before he focused on Bilbo, Bilbo twisting slightly as his body convulsed again within Ori’s light grip. Dori hummed softly as he brushed his fingers along Bilbo’s hair, and Ori winced at the way Bilbo’s eyes darted around, the way he whined and twitched, Ori resisting the urge to pin Bilbo to the ground when he convulsed again as Óin was “guided” to Bilbo’s side with very pointed shoves from Myrtle.

“By Mahal,” Óin breathed, wincing when Bilbo made broken sounds as Óin began to work on cleaning Bilbo up, his face flushed from the tops of his cheeks to his hairline, the exception the bridge of his nose, though Ori wasn’t sure if the red at the tip was from blood stain or actual flushing.

Bilbo convulsed again and Ori tried to keep from Bilbo falling off the pillow. “There were some popped blood vessels, not to mention his eardrums popped. That’ll take some time to heal,” Óin muttered as he began to look Bilbo over.

“We don’t _have_ ti--” Thorin began to snarl, only to get cut off by Myrtle’s loud scream again and his own cursing.

Ori didn’t look up, but he heard Dori go, “Oh, that was close to his braid.”

Ori doesn’t want to know, he just wanted to know if Bilbo was going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you probably noticed, Myrtle is basically Mearas level intelligence here.
> 
> And she's decided that everyone who hurts Bilbo is just...not allowed near him. Ever.
> 
> Even if it means she's got to go "stallion" on Dwarves.
> 
> Also, yes, I know, kind-of short, but I figured fluffing up timeline, Radagast, and running from Wargs could wait.


	10. Chased and Rivendell

Óin had cleaned up Bilbo and, carefully, soaked, and packed, some cotton into Bilbo's ears, which had him whining and twitching. Ori had murmured soothingly, petting Bilbo's forehead as he did so, and Myrtle, in a sudden reversal of temperament, was being an effective blockade between Bilbo and the rest of the Company.

Especially Fíli, Kíli, and Gandalf, considering they were the ones trying to come close. Dori was the only one who could wander back and forth without Myrtle snapping at him, and he was quick to assist Óin with taking care of Bilbo. "I don't understand what happened," Óin grumbled in Khuzdul and Dori frowned a bit as he carefully looked over Bilbo.

"Óin....how did you translate the portents?" Dori gestured in Iglishmêk and Ori looked up slightly.

"Dís has the gift of Foresight, you know this. We think Fíli inherited it," Óin answered in the same way and Dori gently pried open one of Bilbo's eyelids, which had him whining.

"You think it was a vision?" Óin gestured.

"Maybe. Worst case scenario it is a-" Dori gestured in return, only to start when Myrtle screamed a challenge and Gandalf cursed.

Well, it sounded like a curse. Dori couldn't actually tell, since he couldn't understand the Wizard, but Myrtle was readying herself for an attack. "I am trying to  _help_ ," Gandalf stated and Myrtle snorted.

Her ears were pinned back and she lowered her head slightly, a threat in every line of her body. “I don’t think she thinks so,” Kíli stated and Myrtle gave a sharp nod as she planted herself in place.

Óin huffed and tutted and grumbled before he gave a sharp nod. “We can move him. Someone will have to carry him and have him ride in front of them, but there’s little we can do about it. He’s not going to be walking straight for a couple of weeks, but he should be fine,” Óin stated.

“I’ll do it,” Dori stated sharply and easily lifted Bilbo into his arms.

“Let’s go take care of the ponies Ori,” Dori stated and Ori nodded, quickly following after Dori as they walked away, Myrtle walking next to Dori.

* * *

Myrtle snorted and paced in a circle, feeling an itch under her coat that she knew was coming from the _predator_ feeling. She shook all over and pawed the ground before she circled again, resisting the urge to bolt on principle.

This was not usual _predator_ , this was something tempered with a _wrongness_ that came from the Shadow. It came from the whispering trees sometimes down by the Hedge and sometimes it did not, but Myrtle knew Shadow, even if before she did not _know_ the name. She knew _of_ it however, and with…

She knew it was Bilbo, her Hobbit, his presence in her mind, hiding under it like a cloak, it was a shared consciousness and then it was more. It was her alone, and while she could not reach out and cover him like he hid within her (but not, this still seemed to be just her Hobbit that did it so she couldn’t exactly consult anyone), she had an understanding that it was him that had caused the shift.

Unlocked a possibility already there and she snorted, shaking all over and continued to pace in a circle going in the opposite direction. The other ponies were snorting nervously and tugging at their leads and Myrtle snorted, snapping at them, trying to bring them back into control.

But then the Shadow Wolf howled and they were gone, fleeing as best they could, despite Ori trying to catch them. She snorted and stamped her hoof and turned to Ori before she carefully pushed him with her head, sending him towards the group.

She then turned and raced after the ponies.

She would find her Hobbit and his Dwarves when she got _back_.

* * *

Dori barely even twitched at carrying Mr. Baggins on his hip, able to keep a hand on his weapon, and a pack on his back as they followed a Wizard to and fro through the rocks. Mr. Baggins was a deadened weight in his grip, but not much more than hauling up Nori under his arm and carting him away.

He was also one of the few with a “one-handed” weapon, meaning that he was the only one who was able to really carry Mr. Baggins.

Not that he minded, for all that Mr. Baggins seemed to be distant, he was polite and Ori liked him. Ori rarely _liked_ people, and had _never_ liked anyone as quickly as he started to like Mr. Baggins.

At first, yes, Dori had been worried, frightened even. What did this outsider have that no Dwarf did?

In the end, however, it was obvious that Mr. Baggins was just as confused by Ori as Dori was.

As they slid down the pathway, Dori nearly lost his hold on Bilbo before he managed to regain his hold, putting his bola on his belt to drag Ori away from the entrance as he settled Bilbo, Mr. Baggins (wouldn’t do to call him Bilbo before permission was granted after all) on the ground.

Bilbo let out a shout and his eyes opened slightly, staring at Dori, shaking and trembling and Dori frowned. He pressed the back of his hand to Bilbo’s hand and Bilbo leaned into it, almost hesitantly before he pulled away with a low whine. “Easy there, Mister Baggins,” Dori soothed softly as he collected Bilbo up again, not that surprised when Bilbo passed out once more.

Óin came over and Dori gave a one-shouldered shrug while Ori twisted his fingers around his scarf. “Stop that,” Dori hissed softly.

“He wake up?” Óin asked.

“Briefly,” Dori answered.

“I need a place of healing,” Óin muttered lowly and looked to Dwalin, who mentioned a path.

“Follow it of course!” Bofur shouted and soon they were moving down the path, quick and careful.

So when they emerged and saw Rivendell below them, Dori frowned at the Wizard before he held Bilbo a bit closer. “Of course,” he grumbled.

“We’re going to catch a disease,” Dori muttered as he began to follow the others down the path, wondering if it was too late to demand they turn around and go back.

Most likely.

Oh well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I skipped over Gandalf and Radaghast talking because, that's....the only thing that changes is Bilbo is not there. And I was just....I am not trying to recreate the movies with book flavoring or the book with flavoring from the movies, so I moved where it needed to go.
> 
> There is a REASON, I promise.
> 
> Also uh....long time no see?
> 
> Yeah. I'll be working on Hobbit behind the scenes for a bit before I post them up. I've finally gotten the wind back in my sails for it.
> 
> So, I think I'm starting to heal from my cat dying.
> 
> No, I still don't want to talk about it.


	11. Into Rivendell

Thorin glanced back on occasion to where Bilbo was being carried by Dori, resisting the urge to storm back to check on him personally.

He hadn’t expected much from the Hobbit. He had expected the Hobbit to be a burden, useless on their journey, a hindrance even to the end, only for him to be subtly helpful. He was always quick to do the dishes and willing to gather without complaining. He didn’t whine about the travelling conditions, even though he was suffering from a _massive_ headache, at the very least.

He was also quick to step in when someone was having difficulty, before they could ask. It ruffled a couple of feathers, but Bifur had been the only one not to be upset, instead giving Bilbo a searching gaze once and then never doing so again.

He was quick to always let Bilbo help him, when he fought even Bofur, but Bilbo didn’t seem to fully notice it.

Then again, that seemed to just be _Bilbo_.

He didn’t complain, at least no more than any other member of the Company, and all of this had made Thorin’s opinion of the little Shireling raise to at least level with a good chuck of Dwarves he knew, but were not in the Company.

There was also the fact that Bilbo had no stake in their Quest, he had truly just come to help, which at first made Thorin suspicious until Balin confirmed that Bilbo was honest in not wanting any treasure, something Balin always knew.

Dwarves had their little Gifts, beyond what Mahal had given them. It was laughingly called the Kiss of Mahal’s Bride.

But even with all of this, Thorin had not expected him to…care as much.

Thorin knew he was…gruff, that he was sharp and unyielding all at once, both a sword and a stone. That he had not shown Bilbo that he appreciated what the Hobbit brought to the Company, that he was thankful he had come.

Vaguely.

He wasn’t the most…easy of Dwarves to speak with.

“How is he?” Thorin asked with a low growl as he picked up speed.

“Unconscious, but from what I can tell, well,” Balin reassured, just as they moved around the bend and there was a gleaming in the distance.

He just had to hear Gandalf recite the Elvish name for him to grit and bare his teeth. “ _Elves_ ,” he hissed and turned to Gandalf, easy to find, being taller than all and dressed in grey.

“You did this on purpose!” he snapped, and he could tell Gandalf was amused.

Thorin could _feel it_ , despite being well trained enough that he _should not_.

Wizards.

Always causing problems.

He turned on his heel and stormed away, down the path, hoping he didn’t crash into Dori as he did so.

* * *

Óin made sure to help Dori to put Bilbo in Ori’s arms before pulling the weakest members of their company to the center, with him, as the Elves rode into the courtyard. Had he known that the Elvish Lord was part of the hunting party, he would have suggested that they remain on the path and he nearly startled when the Elvish Lord threw himself from his horse.

The horse stilled and he was speaking, loudly, “Lindir, prepare a Healing Room, one of…one of mine. Have Glorfindel see if he can do some meditation exercises, for at least the next two hours,” the Elvish Lord ordered.

“Of course, milord,” the Elf who had greeted them, Lindir, said and turned, racing up the steps with a hurried grace that only Elves had.

“Please move, Thorin son of Thráin, I need to get to the Hobbit,” the Elf who had thrown himself from his horse said and Thorin stepped aside with some noticeable reluctance.

“Lord Elrond,” Gandalf said.

“Please be quiet. I need to stay calm,” Elrond, Lord Elrond, responded as he rushed over to Ori and promptly lay his hand over Bilbo’s forehead.

For a moment, Bilbo’s eyes snapped open, glassy and unseeing as he let out a soft whimper. Tears slipped down from his eyes and then he collapsed again and Elrond exhaled quietly.

“Oh, Bella, why didn’t you bring him to me?” Lord Elrond questioned gently as Óin humphed slightly.

“What’s wrong?” Óin asked as he shifted his ear trumpet.

Thorin had walked over and Lord Elrond inclined his head slightly. “He has no defenses. He’s so battered. I’ll need a couple of hours to put something in place, just for now. It won’t hold up for long. He’ll need to stay for at least a fortnight. You’ve actually helped,” Lord Elrond explained, but he sounded almost…disjointed, as if distracted.

A young Elf that looked like he could be related to Lord Elrond walked over. “He’s a healer by nature. He’ll need to carry the Hobbit, to keep contact, but I promise, it won’t hurt him. Ada is actually best with this type of…injury,” the Elf explained quietly and well, huh, that explained it.

This was one of Lord Elrond’s children. Or his only child.

Óin wasn’t going to press, wasn’t his place.

Ori, of course, tightened his grip. “At ease lad. Lord Elrond is a Healer and he will have taken a Healer’s Oath. No _intentional_ harm will come to Master Baggins,” Óin said and Ori glared at Óin before he eyed Lord Elrond slightly.

He then carefully passed Bilbo to Lord Elrond, who was still dressed in armor. He then promptly walked off, one hand pressed over Bilbo’s forehead and even covering his eyes.

“My apologies, most welcome guests. I am Elrohir, son of Elrond. I will be most happy to show you to rooms. I’m afraid, due to the nature of Master Baggins’ injury, as it were, you cannot stay close, but visitors will likely be most welcomed by him in a couple of hours. Hopefully,” Elrohir greeted respectfully and with a proper bow to the group.

“Elrohir? Can you inform me of the nature of this…injury?” Óin questioned before Thorin could say something.

His distant cousin was many things, but calm and rational were not among them when someone under his protection, whether he admitted it or not, was hurting and no one was giving him a straight answer.

Elrohir stilled and he cleared his throat. “I, ah, no. No, I can’t. It…I would be happy to, but I _can’t_. I’m not a Healer, but this…this crosses into that territory, Healer,” he explained and glanced between them.

“You would need to ask Master Baggins,” he said and then gave a sweeping gesture toward the stairs.

“If I may?” he questioned gently.

Thorin looked ready to argue when Balin elbowed him. “We would be most honored, Elrohir,” Balin answered for Thorin.

Elrohir didn’t seem to take insult with it and began to walk up to lead them up as the warriors lead the horses away.

* * *

It was loud.

It was so _loud_ , and there was fire and light.

It was too much, pressing down and around, and there was a feeling of water as well, cutting through the fire, around the fire, and the light _hurt_ , but didn’t all at once.

He could feel worry, concern, fury, lapping at the edge of his own emotions like water against the shores of the pond, but trickling in too.

He wasn’t sure what was his. He was hurting, but so where others.

He whimpered quietly and then inhaled sharply when it was suddenly _silent_.

There were still the emotions, put it was so _quiet_ and if he had had the energy, he would have sobbed with relief.

He barely felt himself being bundled away, though he almost protested.

His Dwarves needed his help after all. He had made a promise, and a Baggins always kept their promises.

Right.

 _Baggins_. Bilbo Baggins.

That’s what his name.

_That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates, so carefully, carefully, with the plates._


End file.
